Through the Eye of a Needle
by SpaggyB
Summary: Before Dr Watson arrived on the scene, Sherlock's life was bland and boring, the small cases he could find doing nothing to satisfy him. Until one day when a conversation with his brother pushed him into the life of an addict hooked on cocaine, Follow him from the phone call that started it all, right through to the bitter end. Detailed drug use and adult themes.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes had faced many enemies in his time as a detective, but none so challenging as simple boredom, and with each peaceful day that passed, the crushing sensation of uselessness and abandon grew within his brilliant mind. Restless and itching, he scoured every newspaper, every website, every notice board he could find looking for that cry for help that would bring him purpose again, to no avail. Nothing he could find lasted more than a day or two, and brought him no satisfaction, no thrill or challenge. Each case just drilled home to him the idea that he would never find a place in the world, that his life would be empty and void of real reason, and the insufferable, desperate boredom he fought every day to overcome would win out against all else. The same idea that had led him to the precipice on which he now stood, facing a decision he had never thought he would actually consider.

Sherlock was perched on the edge of his armchair cushion, his hands folded delicately under his chin and his narrowed eyes fixed on the bottle in front of him, a fresh needle placed neatly beside it. The room was still around him as if holding its breath, waiting for his decision, with only the gentle ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece breaking the silence. He had lost track of how long he had been sitting there contemplating the potentially life altering choice he had laid down for himself, but to be completely frank, he simply didn't care. His mind was already racing, weighing up everything he knew about injecting cocaine, and what he would need to be prepared for if he actually went ahead and did it. The mental effects, the physical side effects, the potential to become addicted… not to mention the difficulty of hiding it from his over bearing brother, who would have a fit if he was to find out. The taking of illicit drugs seemed so simple to most people, but to Sherlock Holmes, everything seemed to be infinitely more complicated.

He broke his statue like reverie suddenly, reaching out a hand to grasp the small bottle, his slender fingers curling around the glass like a spiders spinning web. It felt cold on his skin, and he twisted it away from his palm, holding it gently in his fingertips. Raising it to the faint light streaming in through the window, he eyed the innocent looking liquid thoughtfully, wondering to himself how something so simple could change a person so drastically. He held his lip in his teeth and tried to imagine himself as he would be in the throes of a cocaine high, but nothing he could picture made the choice any easier. Of course he had researched the effects, read accounts written by addicts and reports compiled by therapists, yet he knew without the actual experience, nothing he could read would help him decide.

The ring of his mobile phone brought him roaring back to his lounge room, and snapped him out of his thoughts. He snatched the drug back into his palm, placing it gently on the windowsill before turning his attention to the source of the interruption. It seemed he would have to put off the inevitable for just a while longer, a concept, he realised, that came to him with the smallest hint of relief. He found his phone on the desk, and a quick glance at the screen told him it was his brother Mycroft that posed as the welcome distraction, something that Sherlock could not say very often. With a reluctant sigh, he picked up.

"Mycroft."

"Sherlock," came the reply, the familiar voice as smooth as always. "Just calling to check up on you."

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. "You never just check up on me, what is it?" He made sure to saturate his voice with dull disinterest, a habit he knew his brother detested. He could almost hear Mycrofts frown through the phone line, and a faint smile tugged at his mouth .

"Come now, we are family after all Sherlock. I'm allowed to be worried about you every now and then."

Sherlock had wandered over to the coffee table, and had picked up the needle while his brother talked. Twirling the instrument in his fingers, he reassured him there was nothing to worry about, and he was doing just fine.

"I've had a few cases, yes." He drawled, placing the needle carefully back on the table. "Nothing substantial, but enough to get by on."

"I do hope you're being honest with me Sherlock. I know what you're capable of when left to your own devices, and I also know that London has been fairly quiet lately. These so-called 'cases' you speak of cant be more than child's play at best." For a moment Sherlock thought he detected genuine concern in his brothers voice as he ran his hand slowly over the polished wood of the mantel. An idea he banished almost instantly from his mind.

"Mycroft, I assure you, child's play or not, a case is a case, and I am quite content to solve any puzzle put before me." He was verging on angry now, always tired of his brothers watchful eye, treating him like an errant child, incapable of taking care of himself. He spun around on his heel, his eye catching a faint glint on the windowsill. The room grew still as Sherlock eyed the bottle, Mycrofts voice still prattling in his ear.

"Sherlock, I am your older brother, I know how you get restless." He was hardly paying attention anymore, his eyes fixed solely on the shining glass. "And I know how childish you can be when left alone for too long!"

Mycrofts words echoed in Sherlocks ear, and he suddenly found his mind made up. His brothers condescension was the final push he needed, and he didn't even bother to utter a farewell before ending the call and dropping his phone to the couch. As if in a daze, his eyes locked on the illegal elixir, he crossed the room in four long strides, snatching the bottle up and gracefully resuming his position in the armchair. His eyebrows knitted, and his jaw clenched in determination as he rolled up the sleeve of his button down shirt, pulling the material tight over the muscle just above his elbow. He let his brothers mocking tone ring through his mind as fuel to unscrew the cap and fill the needle with the liquid drug. He held the readied injection to his arm, lining the point to his vein, his ragged breath tearing thick and fast through his lungs. He felt wild with excitement, adrenaline pumping through his veins as the anticipation of what he was about to experience forced his heart into overdrive.

His eyes closed, and his breath hissed between his teeth as the needle pricked his skin, and as if with a mind of its own, his thumb depressed the nozzle, emptying the drug into his system.


	2. Chapter 2

The room was deathly quiet, he knew that for a fact, but it felt to him like the silence was screaming at him, pressing into his mind with force enough to crush him if he didn't push it back. He lay unmoving on the couch, his wide eyes fixed on the ceiling as he struggled to draw in deep breaths through flared nostrils. For the first time in his life, he felt like he wasn't in complete control of himself, a situation he had failed to consider when contemplating recreational use of cocaine, and the thought terrified him through to his bones. His mind raced faster than he had ever experienced before, flashing through every possible way that something could go horribly wrong with him in the state he was in, and his hands were clenched tight enough to drain the skin to white around his knuckles. Not once in his research had he encountered the possibility of extreme paranoia, and the more he tried to understand why it was happening to him, the more paranoid he became.

Had he overdosed? Was he having an allergic reaction? Was his body rejecting the drug? Was it even cocaine he had injected, or had he been dealt something completely different? What would happen if someone was to call on him like this? What if Mycroft was angry about him hanging up so suddenly and was on his way over to chew him out about it? How would he explain this? _Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck. _

A strangled choke of laughter forced its way from his throat as he caught up with his wild thoughts. He snapped upright, swinging his legs down and tapping his feet on the ground, feeling the unfamiliar energy boiling just underneath his skin. He couldn't sit still as he gazed around the room with fresh perspective; the effects of the drug causing his vision to focus just slightly after his eyes moved on, giving the room a surreal sense of displacement that Sherlock felt oddly caught between. The more he gazed around the familiar room, the more he realised how much he had missed in his time living there.

"All those years…" he whispered aloud. "All those years… I've been so blind! So sodding blind! Ha! HA!" With a cry he sprung up from the couch, gliding around the room as tiny little details he had overlooked while sober jumped out at him like they were the most obvious things in the world. He noted the slightest of variations in the grain of the wooden mantel, the minutely misplaced thread on the corner of the rug. His hands wandered everywhere, touching, feeling, exploring nooks and crevices that seem to have materialised out of nowhere, and the more he discovered, the higher his confidence grew.

"This is fucking fantastic!" He laughed incredulously as he turned a circle in the centre of the room, flexing his hands out in front of himself, feeling more alive than he had for far too long. But the apartment wasn't enough. He felt trapped, like a bee in a jar, knowing he was bursting with potential and greatness, but unable to utilise it. He needed to put his racing mind to work.

Sherlock felt powerful, so very powerful, and every doubt he had ever had about his abilities evaporated. His head spun with the overwhelming sensation of entitlement that came with the new and unfamiliar territory of a cocaine high, and the room spun around him at dizzying speeds. He needed to get out of there, he needed air, but most importantly he needed to go to his pompous, egotistical brother and tell him where to stick it, just like he had imagined on so many occasions. Today was finally going to be _his_ day, and damn anyone who got in his way.

Muttering to himself, he made for the door, stumbling over his feet and tumbling against the wall. He blindly felt his way along til he reached the arch of the doorway, clutching the wood to hold himself up. Anger flared within him at his body's incompetence and slow reaction. His mind was racing at a million miles an hour, and the fact that his body couldn't keep up was an inconvenience he just couldn't accept. Breathing deeply, he straightened up and stumbled into the kitchen, his vision unfocused and dizzying, causing him to lean on the kitchen table as sweat started to bead on his forehead. Panic rose up in him again at the idea that maybe he had taken a bit too much, and maybe he was in more trouble than he thought, and his knuckles grew white around the tables edge.

"Breathe, Sherlock." He said the words out loud, closing his eyes in concentration. "Breathe, and you'll be fine." _Fuck I'm going to throw up. _Just in time he dragged himself over to the sink and emptied his stomach into the drain. His body shook violently as he wiped the back of his hand across his face, clenching his jaw against the twist in his gut.

"It's just the comedown." He slid to the floor, his knees buckling beneath him. "It's just the comedown. It's just the comedown." Within moments, his vision had blacked out, and he succumbed to the cold clutches of unconsciousness.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock awoke hours later, sprawled out over the cold tiles of his kitchen floor, a ringing in his ears and a pounding in his head. The room spun around him as his eyes struggled to focus and his arms stretched out above him, searching for a handhold to help pull him to his feet. His fingers curled around the seat of a dining chair, and he shakily hoisted himself onto his knees, blinking away the last traces of sleep from his eyes. He swallowed dryly, his stomach turning uncomfortably at the bad taste left in his mouth from the night before, and slowly stood up, his whole body shaking at the effort. He arched his back and rubbed his hands down his spine, a twinge of pain running through the muscle from laying on the hard floor for so long. That had certainly not been what he was expecting, that was for sure.

A ring from the lounge room blasted shrill and piercing through the air, causing the ache in his head to spike and his eyes to snap shut against the unexpected pain. Groaning, he shuffled out to the lounge room, stopping in his tracks when he opened his eyes again and registered the state of the place. Papers littered the floor, the arm chair was upturned and the cushions had been strewn around seemingly at random. His now silent phone lay abandoned on the floor against the far wall.

His brow knitted together as he tried to recall what had happened, but all he could remember was the feeling. The extreme rush of clarity that came over him, and the energy that surged through his body as his senses fine-tuned themselves to the point where he could hear the rush of blood through his veins, and feel the slightest twitch of the air in his fingertips. He held himself perfectly still, concentrating, trying to bring back that sensation, to pin point details that would otherwise go undetected around him.

So high was his focus, that his body gave an involuntary jolt as his phones ringtone once again rang out from across the room. With a sigh, he sauntered over to it, stooping low to swipe it off the floor. He answered without bothering to check the caller ID.

"Holmes." His baritone voice sounded raspy, even to him. It was Detective Inspector Lestrade, of Scotland Yard who answered him.

"You alright Sherlock? You're sounding a bit funny."

Sherlock cleared his throat, sitting himself down on the couch. "I'm fine, whats happened?" He heard Lestrade sigh on the other end of the line.

"Murder, a pretty gruesome one." Sherlocks interest was immediately piqued. "Lots of blood around, but not much else. No sign of a weapon, or a forced entry… in fact there's no real sign that anyone else was actually here at all, which is why I'm calling. Reckon you could come down, take a look?"

Sherlock had already made up his mind that he would definitely take the case, but he always got some satisfaction in stringing Lestrade along for a moment, so he pretended to mull it over.

"I guess I don't have anything going on this afternoon."

Lestrade scoffed. "Ah, don't be like that, we all know you enjoy this stuff. Just get here as soon as you can."

Sherlock took note of the address and hung up, taking a moment to stare idly at his phone. It must have been the after effect of the drug, because he just didn't feel the usual rush of excitement that always followed the news of a murder case. He shook his head with a sigh and rose to his feet. Maybe a shower would fix it.

_Or another dose…_

The thought took him off guard and his eyes whipped around to the little glass bottle, sitting where he had left it the night before on the coffee table. The feeling of power he had felt came roaring back from his memory and he found himself drawn to it. The heavy seconds ticked on as he stood transfixed by the tantalising elixir, torn between the desire for that ultimate sense of supremacy, and the strict professionalism that he had grown to be his shield in life. In the end, it was the thought of ending up passing out on the floor of the crime scene that tore his eyes away from the drug, and moved his feet down the hallway to the bathroom.

* * *

Two hours later, all traces of the comedown were erased from Sherlocks mind as he stepped under the caution tape strung up across the doorway of 34 Beaconsfeild Drive. The whole property was riddled with officers and forensic investigators, combing the house for any hint of what had taken place there the night before. Sherlock gazed around, his expression blank as he took in every detail around him, from the marks on the walls to distance between the doorways. A tiny thought at the back of his mind reminded him that his senses weren't as acute as they could have been, and he gave his head a curt shake to dislodge it.

Sherlock reached the doorway to the bedroom, the scene of the murder, at the same time as Lestrade stepped out of it, a grim expression on his features, which only hardened when his eyes came to rest on the detective. He crossed his arms over his chest and squared his shoulders minutely before addressing Sherlock.

"Good of you to come down mate, we're not getting anything useful."

Sherlock suppressed a chuckle. "Who's on forensics?" He didn't actually care so much as he was just humouring the DI. Sherlock worked alone, and everyone knew it. Lestrade sighed, and Sherlock groaned internally.

"Anderson. Now don't give me that look." Sherlock had made his distaste clear in his expression, and Lestrades arms fell to his sides in exasperation. "You know Andersons the best we've got on our team, just cut him some slack okay?"

Sherlock stepped pointedly around Lestrade and made for the doorway, speaking back over his shoulder. "He _was_ the best you had, inspector, but I'm here now, so you can tell your team to pack up and stay out of my way."

If Lestrade had responded, it had fallen of deaf ears, for Sherlock was through the door and gazing at the bloody mess in front of him. The inspector had said it was a gruesome scene on the phone, and he was not exaggerating. The body of what was once apparently a young woman lay twisted and mangled on the floor by the bed, split almost the full way through the torso, and horrendously splayed out, the mangled organs on full display. Blood had been sprayed and smeared over the entire room, the dried substance cracked and peeling away from the furniture. Sherlock remained unmoving and undisturbed as his keen eyes darted this way and that, scoping out clues, signs and implications of whatever horrors had caused the scene in front of him.

Stepping forward, he drew a set of latex gloves from his coat pocket, snapping them over his slender hands. "When was she found?"

"This morning, about eight O'clock." Lestrade had re-entered the room, and was standing just inside the doorway, watching Sherlock work with slightly narrowed eyes. "Forensics say it must have happened earlier this morning, around two actually. No one in the neighbourhood reported seeing or hearing anything."

Sherlock was combing the room, inspecting everything from the dresser table, to the peeling wallpaper. "You mean Anderson said that, so of course he's wrong."

"Oh great, the consulting freak is here." An unpleasantly nasally voice joined the conversation with a sneer. Sherlock didn't even bother to look up from the windowsill he was inspecting.

"Anderson, always a pleasure."

"I can't possibly be wrong Holmes, the blood speaks for itself."

"Ah, there is where you are right, the blood does speak for itself." He finished his investigation of the window, and spun around to examine the floor boards between the bed and the door, still not looking up to meet the newcomers accusing glare. "I suspect none of the labs have come back, considering you obviously haven't picked it up yet."

Anderson scoffed, and stepped backwards out of the way as Sherlock crawled his way across the floor, eyes trained on the wood beneath him. "Picked what up yet?"

Satisfied, the detective sprung to his feet, twirling around to face the two other men. "On the fact that his is not her blood." He suppressed a satisfied smile at the shock on both men's faces. "It's pigs blood, the pigment is much too dark to be a young woman's, and the way it is drying tells you everything you need to know, not to mention the clearly deliberate way its been splashed around, but then I guess you can be excused since your brain is quite obviously as underdeveloped as your sense of reasoning, and without your team of scientific robots to analyse everything for you, you're pretty much as useless as… "

"Sherlock, what do you _mean_ its pigs blood?" Lestrade cut off the detectives rant before Anderson blew a vein in his forehead. "How can that be possible? I mean, if this is pigs blood, where is _her_ blood?" He indicated to the body across the room.

Sherlock flashed a small grin, the excitement of the chase starting to creep its way into his body.

"Haven't the faintest."

He strode away from them and out the door back into the hallway, his eyes trained on the floor in front of him. The body hadn't been dragged, that was for sure, so how had the murder gotten it in here? And from where…

"Sherlock, hold up a minute!" Sherlock rolled his eyes as Lestrade came striding after him. "Are you saying someone just strolled in here in the middle of the night, carrying a hacked up carcass over their shoulder or something?"

"Something like that yes. Look," He turned to face the perplexed inspector, determined to convince him to just trust his word and let him get on with his investigation. "what I'm saying is, this is a _really_ interesting case, because whoever did this planned it out precisely, and went to a lot of frankly unnecessary effort to make it look like she was murdered in her own home, and since your team is completely inadequate I would very much appreciate it if you worked with me and at least tried to make it easier by just telling me what I want to know and staying out of my way, understand?"

Before the stunned Lestrade could answer, Sherlock was out the front door and away down the street. This case was going to be a tricky one, and he needed to get back to his apartment and lay down everything he had gathered that afternoon to try and figure out where to go next.


	4. Chapter 4

Darkness had fallen over the four story apartment complex in lower London that Sherlock called home, but he had made no progress in the case of that afternoon. Reports had come back to him that the body had been completely drained of blood, and the organs so vividly on display had almost completely dried out, and seemed to be oddly placed in the hacked up torso. Obviously she had died elsewhere, and someone had felt the need to return her to her home and set it up; but who? And why. And _how_? Sherlock ran his hands through his thick, curly hair, giving a sigh of exasperation. For what felt like the thousandth time that day, his phone rang out across the room.

"Holmes."

"Sherlock, feeling better are we?" Mycroft's voice, just as smooth and irritating as ever, rang through the receiver. "I will admit, your behaviour yesterday did very little to put my concern to much rest."

"Oh, I assure you brother, your concern is very much unneeded now." Sherlock draped himself lazily over the couch, eyes darting toward the kitchen. "I assume you are up to date on the newest developments in my professional life?"

"Of course." His tone was almost mocking. "The butchered woman with the pigs blood. Did that idiot Anderson really not realise that it didn't belong to her?"

Sherlock murmured in agreement. "I keep telling Lestrade that he is useless, but you know how it is at Scotland Yard; there is very little actual talent there, an unfortunate fact for both me and for London."

"Yet quite fortunate for the criminals. But then that is why they have you, Sherlock."

"Mycroft, is there a reason for this phone call, or did you just want a friendly chat?" Sherlock nerves were starting to wear thin with his brother, and there was an edge to his voice.

"Are you implying there is something wrong with friendly chats between family members?"

"Goodbye Mycroft."

Sherlock dropped the phone on the coffee table, and gave a sigh as he heard it clatter to the floor. Staring at the ceiling, he turned his mind back to the case, but there was no denying that since leaving the crime scene in Shepherds Blush, the lethargy that plagued his life in recent months had started creeping back. He had pinned every scrap of evidence up along the wall as per his routine, but where the scraps of paper and the gruesome photographs usually enticed him and fuelled him further into the mystery, this time they only created a mess, and hung abandoned and untouched.

Forcing himself to his feet, he shuffled lazily across the room, raking his eyes over the wall of text and images. He already knew where the useless path he was treading was leading him, and he determinedly kept his eyes away from the mantle, where the bottle sat waiting patiently. The memory of his heightened abilities played on is mind despite his best efforts to avoid them, and the urge to inject another dose of the substance and re-examine the scene with his enhanced vision tugged at his mind. His unmoving eyes bored holes through the papers on his wall as the temptation gently pulled at him, dragging him nearer to the acceptance that there was no other way, until with an infuriated cry, he spun around, grabbing the bottle off the shelf and shoving it into his pocket. Adding a fresh needle from the kitchen, and his phone from the floor, he stormed out of the apartment onto the street, hailing a cab and climbing in.

The bottle weighed heavily in Sherlock's pocket as he sat in the rear of the cab and gave the driver the address. He hadn't fully decided on whether or not he would take the drug when he got there when his phone once again cut through his thoughts. A quick glance at the screen before answering told him it was Lestrade.

"What's happened?"

"There's been another one. Same deal." The Detective Inspectors voice sounded hopeless down the line. "Its down over the bridge this time, Southwark. Friend found her about an hour ago."

"Another woman?" Sherlock noted the similarity with interest. "What's the address, I'm on my way. Tell your boys not to touch anything, understand?"

Sherlock called the new destination out to the driver and sat back in his seat. Maybe this scene would offer up some answers, and he wouldn't need the cocaine after all.

_But then again, maybe not._

The errant thought made him scowl and he tried in vain to banish it from his mind, instead focusing on the idea that being high only made him doubt his sober senses, something he simply could not accept. He relied on his senses, he always had, that is how he had survived in the world, and if something made him doubt them, he didn't stop until it was eradicated.

_Unless that something improved them. Improved your work. Made you stronger._

Sherlock spent the rest of the car ride locked in uneasy, conflicting thoughts, and by the time the cab pulled up behind the police tape, his mood had turned downright sour. Stepping into the crime scene did nothing to improve this as he was greeted by the angry face of Anderson, the forensics detective who delighted in mocking the Consulting Detective.

"Don't worry Your Highness, we've hardly stepped foot in there." He sneered, his nasally voice making Sherlock's nostrils flare. "Your lap dog Lestrade made sure of that."

Sherlock didn't even bother to respond as he strode past. With every step he felt the hidden drug nudge gently against his side, and the sensations just made the tension in the air around him thicken. To indulge Anderson in his mocking would only make this worse for him.

He found Lestrade in the main bedroom, along with the new corpse, mangled and displayed in almost an identical fashion to the first. Pigs blood had once again been splashed around the room, coating the walls, floor and furniture in layers of crimson, although this time, it was obviously much fresher. This scene had obviously been found much sooner than the first. Turning to Lestrade, Sherlock began his investigation.

"The friend who found her, I assume they are being questioned?"

"Yeah, she's down at the station now. Don't expect we'll get much from her though." Lestrade sighed. "She's a right mess."

Sherlock murmured in agreement.

"You said this was found about ninety minutes ago. The killer can't have been here much longer before that."

Lestrade crossed his arms over his chest as his eyes followed Sherlock around the room.

"What makes you think that?"

Sherlock waved a hand towards the reddish brown walls.

"The blood. Still hasn't dried in the thicker areas. Since it's a cooler day out, the weather wouldn't have been assisting it to dry, so it can't have been thrown about more than two hours ago. Get Anderson in here to take a sample, it should tell us how old it is."

"Yeah," Lestrade muttered in response. "Yeah. Right."

Sherlock was left alone in the room as his fellow detective went to fetch the forensics crew. Crouching next to the bed, he narrowed his eyes at the mess of butchered organs, trying to gain an idea of what kind of weapon could do such a thing.

"These marks," he said as he heard the two other men re-enter the room. "Were they found on the other victim?"

It was Lestrade who answered.

"Those kind of jagged tears? Yeah, the guys at Bart's think they were made by some kind of roughly serrated blade. High powered, like a power saw or something."

"I'd have to be a bloody big power saw to do that to a person." Anderson scoffed from the side wall.

"Hmm," Sherlock rose to his feet. "Yes, it would have to be."

The next hour turned out just as much information as the previous scene had, despite Sherlock's best efforts, a fact that absolutely infuriated him. Once again, there was no trace of anyone else being present, or any possible way the body could have gotten there. Lestrade had informed him that no prints were lifted from the first body, or the first scene, and that they weren't hopeful about this set either, so there wasn't even that to go on. With every passing minute Sherlock grew more and more aware of the bottle sitting patiently in his pocket, and by the time the forensics crew had cleared away their equipment and the officers were leaving, he had made up his mind that that night, he would return to view the scene with his new found perspective, and pry the answers from its cold, dead hands.


	5. Chapter 5

The blood soaked room spun around Sherlock as he stood with wide eyes in the centre. His pulse raced in his ears as every minute detail of what had taken place merely a day before screamed at him from every corner. The body had been removed that afternoon, but he didn't need it there; his photographic memory was more than enough to satisfy him.

The killer had wheeled the remains into the house stuffed inside a suitcase, the almost inconspicuous indents in the welcome mat from the wheels, and the slightly out of place hallway rug had told him that as soon as he swung open the front door. In his other hand, his left hand to be precise, he had carried a smaller carry-on sized bag containing the pig's blood, and possibly the organs as well. He had then entered the room and set both parcels down in the space in which Sherlock now stood, and had spent a considerable amount of time carefully arranging the corpse so that all of its internal organs were on vivid display, a deliberate act of exposure performed in malice for ironic purposes. Lestrade had called him earlier to tell him the connection between the two victims was their professions; they were both therapists. As he stood there thinking that over, Sherlock, with the enhanced power of deduction granted to him by the cocaine, felt ever so stupid for not picking the twisted irony immediately upon learning that fact. Obviously the killer suffered extreme mental illness, harboured resentment towards his personal therapist, and was mutilating other women in the same line of work in place of her to satisfy his deranged fantasies. All of this Sherlock muttered aloud to himself in broken, stuttering phrases as his mouth struggled to keep up with his thoughts.

Sherlock turned on his heel and hurried out of the house, making his way to the main road to flag down a taxi, the brisk night air biting harshly at his over sensitive skin. His eyes darted around him, unfocused yet acutely attuned to every detail of his surroundings, causing his head to swim with sensations he could not put accurate words to. The only coherent thought he was able to grasp was to take the opportunity to examine the bodies with his super human abilities while he had them, confident that an abundance of fresh evidence would reveal itself to him.

When he was seated in the back of a cab and speeding towards Bartholomew's Hospital, he whipped his phone out of his pocket and punched in the speed dial for Lestrade's mobile. The Detective Inspectors phone seemed to ring for an eternity, and Sherlock could not stop his feet tapping on the floor, or his idle fingers from drumming a pattern into his knee.

"Jesus Sherlock," Lestrade's groggy voice finally answered. "Don't you ever sleep?"

Sherlock hardly heard the question.

"Oh, is it late, I didn't notice, listen," he sat forward, free hand clenched into a fist on his thigh. "Did the lab report come back for that blood sample Anderson took this afternoon?"

"Oh God Sherlock, I don't know. Its three AM, can't it wait?"

Sherlock's nostrils flared angrily.

"Oh, so sorry for disturbing your rest Detective Inspector, I'll just tell the next girl we find hacked to pieces that Scotland Yard needed its beauty sleep shall I, I'm sure she'd understand."

He heard Lestrade draw in a long breath before huffing it out in defeat.

"Point taken. Hang on a tic, I'll call the lab and get back to you okay? Just sit tight."

Sherlock snapped his phone shut and threw himself roughly back against the seat cushion.

The minutes dragged by as the taxi seemed to all but crawl along the empty streets towards the morgue. Sherlock could not keep still in the darkness of the cab, and his eyes darted back and forth between the interior of the car and the lights flashing by them outside. He felt like time had screeched to an infuriatingly slow snail's pace just to taunt him, and his scowl grew deeper and deeper with every beat of his racing heart, his blood rushing thick and fast through his ears and washing over his overflowing mind. Connections in the evidence were linking themselves faster than he could comprehend as he combed over and over the crime scenes in his head, committing every single detail to memory, and how he came to notice them in the first place.

Lestrade had still not called back by the time Sherlock found himself striding through the doors of the morgue, and his patience was wearing thin. Had he still been in the cab, he would have called back and cussed him out for taking so long, but instead he was fast approaching the autopsy room where he would find whoever was on duty that night. He silently prayed it was 'Old Man' Henry whom he valued for his no-nonsense attitude and unprying principles. He was shocked, however, to burst through the white washed doors and crash right into a young red headed girl he had never seen before, who promptly dropped the files she was carrying all over the ground in front of them.

"Oh! Sorry! So sorry, I'm so sorry!" he voice was high and nervous as she dropped to her knees and clumsily bustled the papers into her arms again. Sherlock stood over her and watched with knitted brow, irritated in the delay. When she finally collected the last scrap and stumbled to her feet, his gaze was met with wide and timid brown eyes set over flushed round cheeks. Had she not been so obviously flustered, and he so urgently distracted, Sherlock Holmes would have found her beautiful.

"Oh, um… Sorry, um..." She started to stammer an apology, but Sherlock cut her off.

"And who are you? Where is Henry?"

The girl shuffled her feet.

"Um, my name is Molly. Molly Hooper." She dropped her gaze as she talked, clearly intimidated by Sherlock's ice cool assertiveness, which only irritated him further. "I'm um, new here, just started actually and…"

Sherlock huffed out an impatient breath before cutting her off again.

"Where is Henry? I have business I need to discuss with him."

The girl flicked her eyes back to him, a flash of defiance shining from them. "He's not in tonight. I'm in… in charge."

Sherlock stared openly, clearly doubting her words. After a moment of uncomfortable silence, he spoke again, the urgency of his mission creeping back into his blood stream and over powering the mild disruption.

"Yes, fine, okay you'll have to do." Stepping around her, he strode off towards the storage room, leaving Molly to stumble after him in his wake. "I need to see the bodies of the two female murder victims, and their report files. Now."

He heard her struggle to keep a hold of the errant papers in her arms as she followed. "But, they're already signed off, their papers have even gone through already I cant just…"

"Yes, you can. And you will." Sherlock turned swiftly to face her, catching the surprised girl by the upper arms and holding her still, leaning in so their faces were level. He could see sheer terror reflected back at him in her eyes, and knew that intimidation and fear was the way to get her to do what he wanted. "Look, the only way I can be sure to catch the person who killed them is to examine their bodies right now. If I don't, and the killer walks free for another day then that's another victim on your autopsy table is that what you want? To piece another innocent woman back together while her family grieve? Because if it is just tell me right now and I'll turn around and walk out of here, but just know if that's the case then it is you who will have to answer to Lestrade, do you understand?"

Molly nodded meekly, absolutely petrified, and Sherlock let her go. Straightening up he flashed her an arrogant grin. Without a word she shuffled through to the storage room and opened first one, and then another body compartment. Pulling out the gurneys and unzipping the bags, she left Sherlock to his work and retreated to the office to pull up their files. Sherlock watched her go and noted that despite her meek appearance and delicate air, she had a level of professionalism and brisk efficiency that he found himself admiring. Shaking that thought from his mind, he turned his attention back to the reason he had made this trip.

After a moment, Molly handed him the report papers and retreated, leaving him alone to read over them, taking mental notes of what foreign materials were found on each victim. His mind was flying, and if his deductions were correct, which he had very little doubt they were, then there was only one more piece of data he needed to crack this case. As if on cue, his phone rang in his pocket, and before it had finished its second chime, Sherlock had snapped it to his ear.

"Lestrade, talk to me."

"Seriously Sherlock, get some sleep every couple of days at least, you're very on edge."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and gritted his teeth.

"Lestrade, the blood. How old was it?" he started to pace, impatience mingling with excitement and adrenaline in his blood.

"Alright, keep your head on, Jesus. The labs showed that the blood from the second crime scene cant have been unrefrigerated at least for more than three hours, happy?"

Sherlock didn't even bother to respond before hanging up and all but running from the autopsy room, leaving both bodies and their files lying out and exposed. He was already crunching the numbers in his head and making even more connections as his fingers flew across his phones touch screen, calculating distances and times. When he was sure beyond a doubt that he had the answer to the murder cases, he text Lestrade and hailed himself a cab, shouting to the driver and mentally celebrating what he was sure to be a dramatic victory.

He made it to Scotland Yard at the same time as an obviously disgruntled Lestrade, and they two men rode the elevator together up to the Detective Inspectors office. The moment the door closed behind them Sherlock exploded with the information that had been piling up in his over stimulated mind, eager to bring the case to a climactic finale.

Sherlocks hands came slamming down on the Detective Inspectors desk, making Lestrade, who was sitting behind it, jump.

"It's the Old Saw Mill in South Croydon, that's where he's killing them."

Lestrade just blinked slowly as he absorbed the information as Sherlock gushed on.

"We need to go there, _now_, its where he's taking these women and murdering them. He then stuffs them in a suitcase, drives them to his hobby farm on the outskirts of the town to pick up the pigs blood and then takes them home to set up the scene. I know it's the Old Mill because of the way the women are murdered. You said it was with something akin to a power saw, remember? A large one. Well, a timber mill saw would be large enough, don't you agree? 'But how do you know its in South Croydon?' you may ask, well you answered that not an hour ago. The blood Lestrade, the blood! Less than three hours old, and it cant have been on the wall more than two hours, so that means the mill and the farm had to be less than an hour away, so where could that be? Croydon, Lestrade, South Corydon!"

Sherlock took a deep breath and turned to the Detective Inspector, waiting for a response from him. Lestrade's jaw was hanging slack as he watched his colleague in confusion. It was clear that he hadn't followed a word of Sherlock's speech as he shook his head and ran his hands through his hair. Sherlock's excitement hesitated at Lestrade's blank expression.

"Okay, just… calm down, and start again. South Croydon?"

Sherlock took a deep, exasperated breath, his blood pounding in his ears as he struggled to curb the fresh rush of adrenaline. His hands balled into fists as he fought to remain calm.

"Yes, Lestrade, South Croydon. There is an old timber mill there that's been shut down for years now. They tried turning it into a museum, but everyone knew that was pointless from the get go, so its just been abandoned."

"And that's where he is?"

"Yes, it must be, it's the only location that fits the evidence. The autopsy report says both victims had a fine coating of rust flakes in the wounds, which can only come from the old rusted timber blades, which fits the criteria for the murder weapon. And Croydon is the right distance away from the victims houses according to the blood found on the walls. Honestly Lestrade, this is just becoming more and more obvious each time I say it! Now we have to _move._"

Lestrade shook his head slowly and stood up from where he was seated behind his desk. It was clear to Sherlock that he was having doubts, and the consulting detective gritted his teeth against his irritation. Once again, the clock seemed to have slowed to a snail's pace, and Sherlock could feel the stress building up beneath his skin as Lestrade made the call to gather the team and make preparations to investigate the abandoned mill. Every tick of the clock rang clear in Sherlock's ear, taunting him as he paced the length of the office back and forth until Lestrade called out that it was time to go.

The car ride was long, and hellishly slow for Sherlock. He was seated across from Lestrade, who's brow was knitted in curiosity as Sherlock's knee bounced feverishly with impatience. To the officer, it was almost concerning how frantic his friend seemed to be, with his eyes darting all over the place under firmly scowling eyebrows. After sitting in silence for quite a while as the van wound its way away from the city, Lestrade could hold his tongue no more.

"Sherlock, are you feeling okay? I've never seen you this wired over a case before."

Sherlocks eyes snapped around at an alarming speed. Narrowed in the dimly lit cab, they shone bright with a cocaine fever.

"I'm fine." He returned to gazing out of the window, making a mental note to keep himself under a tighter check while high in the presence of others. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lestrade still staring at him, clearly concerned.

"You seem a bit… worked up is all."

The conversation died and the men were left to wait out the remainder of the trip in a somewhat uncomfortable silence. Sherlock could feel the effects of the cocaine starting to wear off, and his stomach turned. A headache was setting in, and he hoped they would be able to wrap up their outing before the comedown really set in.

Within the hour the convoy of vans had pulled up outside the old timber mill Sherlock had stated just as the sun was starting to rise. All heads turned towards the large tin sheds as the quiet briefing from Lestrade to the force team was cut off by the unmistakable whirring of a timber saw, and Sherlock could not help but feel a pang of satisfaction as the last shred of doubt was erased from his mind. Ignoring Lestrade completely, he withdrew his hand gun from inside his coat and ran towards the sound, the rest of the team following in quick pursuit.

It wasn't the first time he had run full pelt into a potentially life threatening situation, but this time was different for him. His senses seemed to be on fire as the remains of the drug in his system mingled with the adrenaline in his veins. The shouts of his comrades mixed with the harsh pining of the saw echoed around his head and he found himself feeling more alive than he ever had before.

He mounted the rusted staircase, taking three steps at a time, and came face to face with the middle aged man who could only be the killer. The man took a step back away from Sherlock, who had the barrel of his gun trained squarely on his head. Below the two of them, some members of the team had cut the power to the massive timber saw and were attending to who was lined up to be the killers third victim. Lestrade had followed Sherlock up the stairs and was standing poised with his own unholstered weapon, making the best of the narrow walkway.

Sherlock took a step forward, then another one as the man tried desperately to find an escape, without success. He was backed up against the railing at the end of the platform, looking down to the solid concrete ten feet below. Sherlock called out to him, triumphant and cocky.

"Even if you jump, theres a whole force team down there waiting. Just put your hands above your head and turn around slowly."

The man scowled at the detective, his lip curled menacingly over his teeth. From the distance Sherlock was, he could see the mattered hair, and the scabs covering his neck and hands. Clearly this man was deranged. He took another step backwards, one of his feet coming to rest on the bottom rung of the railing. Sherlocks heart skipped a beat at the idea that he may actually make a jump for it.

"Come on now, don't do that." He's voice was sneering as he realised that a small part of him _wanted_ to see the man fall. "At worst you'll break a few bones. It's over, just give in."

Without a word, the man spun on his heel, gripped the railing and flung himself head first over the side, a deafening _crunch_ echoing throughout the massive tin room as he hit the concrete head first.


End file.
